


Valentine's Day Horror

by Jubalii



Series: A Year's Worth [2]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Cliche, F/M, He sees the boobs, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9635153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: An overworked cliche leaves Eve and Zacharias both down one shirt.





	

February brought with it a weather most sinister.

 

If the fates had deemed Labyrinthia worthy of snow, its citizens would have gladly considered the cold air a worthy sacrifice for a few days of pleasure. Unfortunately, the tides were against them this winter. Instead of soft, light powder, the northern gales that buffeted the island brought with it a torrential downpour. Those that dared venture outside found themselves faced with a bone-chilling rain that pounded against the closed casements and flooded the cobbled streets. The good people of Labyrinthia spared no expense in order to remain inside, where a warm hearth and dry seats were in abundance.

The week of Valentine's Day, the rain finally ceased. However, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Instead, cobalt clouds rolled stormily towards the distant horizon in all directions without a break, and the glacial winds seemed to redouble their efforts in an attempt to make up for the lack of precipitation. The ocean became a dark, rolling mass of froth that threatened to overturn fishing vessels, spraying the docks with salty foam as the waves rose high enough to wet the sails of the largest ships. A dampness permeated the atmosphere, leaking underneath doors and through casements, penetrating even the tightest scarf and warmest woolen mittens. Unsurprisingly, a serious bout of influenza began to sweep through the town, keeping the newly ordained Dr. Greyearl busier than ever.

Despite the illness plaguing the town and keeping most children and even their parents in their beds and out of the damp, the town still carried on with its Valentine's festivities. The gaiety of the holiday added a certain cheeriness to Labyrinthia, even as shops began to close doors earlier to reduce risk of infection and the primary school remained closed for an extended holiday as its prudish teacher regained her strength. For the healthy, life went on as normally as possible. For the sick... well, there was soup, and if one was lucky, a lover to sympathize with.

Among the ailing was the normally hearty Mrs. Eclaire, who had gone out in the wind one too many times to bring bread to those already struck with the flu. She was in bed now, with newly turned nursemaid Zacharias Barnham making sure that she didn't stir from it until her temperature was normal. That left Espella to run the bakery, and while she did a fine job of it on her own, The Storyteller insisted that she stay well-rested in order to keep her own body from weakening and coming down with flu herself.

This added the bakery among those shops that remained open only half the day, closing at lunchtime to allow Espella free reign in the kitchen without also having to rush across the counter to help customers as well as restock her supplies during the busy parts of the day. Barnham was constantly up and down the stairs, trying to help the young woman as well as trying to keep an eye on the elder woman upstairs. He also carried out the deliveries and went for Mrs. Eclaire's medicine from Dr. Jane, which had Espella claiming that _he_ would get sick before _she_.

On the day before Valentine's, Eve found herself spending time not with a beau, but with a best friend. Even with Mrs. Eclaire ill upstairs, she had allowed Espella to talk her into helping out on the holiday. The bakery was closed, the door firmly shut but not latched, as Barnham was once again after the baker's daily doses. The wind whipped at the roof, whistled in the chimney, and rattled the window panes; still, the draft couldn't worm its way past the impenetrable fortress of oven-baked air that filled the bakery's main room.

With Eve's inexpert, but well-meant help, the two young ladies had finished strawberry tarts, the sugar roses, the sweetheart cakes, and the heart-shaped shortbreads. They had taken a break so that Espella could sneak upstairs and check on her guardian; meanwhile, Eve busied herself with cleaning up the bakery, placing the finished sweets on trays so that the cookie icing could dry and the tarts could settle while she wiped down the counters and washed some of the dishes.

“Sleeping like an angel,” Espella announced as she reappeared, arms red from scrubbing away any germs in the washbasin upstairs. “But snoring like a bear,” she giggled, quietly closing the door that separated the bakery from the stairs that led to the domestic floor. “Poor Aunt Patty, all stuffed up,” she sighed in genuine pity.

“She's over the worst of it now,” Eve assured her, drying measuring spoons and placing them one by one back in their matryoshka pattern. “In another week she'll be back on her feet and running this place again.”

“A welcome recovery!” Espella laughed, accidentally dusting her hair with flour as she pushed stray locks back into her plaits. “I don't know how she does it, but she can run this place singlehandedly while I can barely make do even with Sir Barnham's help.”

“She has more years of experience than you.” Eve aligned the last spoon and then brushed stray powdered sugar from her purple sweater. With Mrs. Eclaire's apron being sanitized at the laundress's and Espella dressed in hers, there had been no other apron. Barnham always wore his armor, even in such an inopportune setting, and therefore hadn't needed any smock to keep the dough from his clothing. Thankfully the sweater was a shade of lilac, and the sugar wasn't as noticeable as it would have been had she'd worn her favorite plum-colored one. “Give it time. You'll get better.”

“Ah, well. Sir Barnham's the one that's toying with the idea of a bakery, not me.” Espella rolled her sleeves back down and pulled two jars of her homemade cherry preserves from each one of her smock pockets. “I want to be an author, like Dad. Or maybe a teacher.”

“He... is?” This was news to her. She tried to imagine Zacharias running his own bakery, but she couldn't conjure up even the notion of it. “Does he enjoy it that much?”

“Well, I think he's actually more interested in running his own business. But he likes to cook,” Espella admitted, straining as she tried to remove the lid of one of the jars. “and he's...getting... _better!_ ” With one final yank the lid popped free, preserves sloshing onto the counter. Eve wrinkled her nose at the mess. “Oh no! They didn't stiffen up.”

“You can say that again.” Eve took the jar and tipped it carefully, watching the softened mixture. “It's oozing.”

“Ugh.” Espella clicked her tongue as she haphazardly wiped the spilled preserves on her sleeve and rubbed it against her hip, staining the ear of the embroidered black cat. “Well, I was going to use them for thumbprint cookies, but they're too runny.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Maybe....”

“Pies?” Eve suggested, tapping the jar against the counter in a vain attempt to make the mixture settle. “Or a cobbler, perhaps.” Espella clapped her hands together.

“No, I've got it!” She grinned broadly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Dumplings!”

“D-dumplings?” Eve repeated in confusion. Dumplings were for meat, not fruit. And they could have to be fried instead of steamed. But if Espella noticed the uncertainty in her tone, she ignored it.

“Cheery Cherry Dumplings!” She grabbed the other jar and began to work on its lid as well. “A bakery original! We can roll the dough thin and...and....” She grunted in effort. “Here Eve, hold this,” she ordered, unceremoniously shoving the jar into her hands. Eve held it still while she continued, twisting with all her might. “We can bake them...instead of... _frying—oh,_ look out!” A sudden, violent effort on the smaller girl's part had them both flying. Eve stumbled back as Espella's full weight fell onto her, hands grabbing for the counter and missing. There was an almighty crash that would have woken the dead—and Mrs. Eclaire, had she not been ill—and then Eve found herself staring at the ceiling before she knew it, blinking stupidly at the rafters.

“Oh, oh no!” Espella was sprawled atop her, but now she leaned back with her hands over her mouth. Her smock was stained crimson, and at first glance Eve panicked, foolishly forgetting the preserves and thinking instead that the dark liquid was blood, and that Espella had hurt herself on the glass jar. “Eve, I'm so, so sorry!”

“Are you alright?” She asked, feeling a chill on her stomach. She looked to see the jar still intact on the floor near them, the lid lying beneath a shelf. The stone around them looked like a murder scene, spots and chunks of cherry preserves resembling a butcher's backyard.

“Are _you_?” At the question, Eve looked down and cringed. Espella had gotten off with just a stomach-full of preserves, but thanks to the motion of the jar as they fell, her entire sweater was dripping with cherry. The lilac wool soaked up the dark juices like a dry sponge, spreading slowly up towards her collarbone and sleeves. “I'm sorry!” she repeated, voice high and squeaky.

“It's alright.” She gently pushed the younger girl away and climbed to her feet before offering her a hand. “It was an accident. No harm done... to me, at least.” She held the sopping shirtfront away from her skin with the tips of her fingers. “I'll just borrow one of yours and wash this one in the bathroom before the stain sets.” It would be a little too tight, but it was better than ruining a perfectly nice sweater.

“No,” Espella protested firmly. “I'll do it. You can't go upstairs.”

“Why not?” 

“Eve.” The blonde put her hands on her hips. “Aunt Patty has an infectious disease. I've already been exposed while you've been downstairs all day. I couldn't forgive myself if I let you go upstairs and you came down with flu. And I think Sir Barnham would murder me if he knew I'd let you.” She smirked. “Even if it _would_ give him an excuse to cater to your every whim.”

“What do you suppose I do? Wait down here with no shirt on until you bring me one?” she replied irritably. “Or should I only undress here in the open with the shirt you bring me?” Espella did look stumped at that, looking around at the windows. Although the upstairs windows had shutters, the downstairs had nothing to keep potential buyers from seeing the displays. Anyone walking by could get an eyeful. At that moment, almost as if proving her point, a bundled up Lettie Mailer was half-thrown, half-carried by the wind as she made her way down the street with her bulging bag. She waved at them, her hand faltering as she took in the sight of their stained clothing, and then hurried on.

“Well, maybe just on the stairs,” she finally conceded with a sigh. “Surely staying on the bottom step won't expose you to flu germs. You won't be there long enough.” She ushered her through the door, closing it behind them. She turned and waited while Eve gingerly stripped the stained sweater off and handed it to her. “I'll wash this first, and then bring you a shirt.”

"Hurry.” Eve crossed her arms as a chill ran through her. After being in the warm bakery, the staircase was cold in comparison. She heard Espella run to the washroom and move around, as well as the sound of the pump being worked and then the splash of icy water into the basin. Resting against the wall, she leaned back and tried to be patient. She knew Espella would have to work the stain out, which would take a minute despite her trying to be quick. She instead tuned the girl out, focusing on the snores which echoed from upstairs and counting them. Indeed, poor Mrs. Eclaire snored like a bear. If word ever got out, the children would be singing a rhyme about it in two days' time.

Time passed slowly, her skin becoming used to the cold. She put her arms down and was trying to decide whether to sit on the stairs when Espella's pale face leaned over the landing.

“It's hanging up to dry now,” she stated. “I'll be back with a shirt.” Then she was gone again, this time down the hall to her bedroom.

“Fine.” She had just settled with her back to the wood again and restarted her counting when the door—the _wrong_ door—flew open without notice. Jumping back with a gasp, she froze in place out of pure shock. Unfortunately, the door was wide open and the man holding its knob was also just as frozen, gray eyes taking in the sight before him in disbelief. There was a pause, where she stood on the fifth stair, looking over the red hair at the glaring openness of the windows, and then she managed to hiss, “Close the door!” as her arms tried to adequately cover her chest.

The door closed, but the damn fool hadn't remained in the bakery. Instead, he was still staring at her almost without shame, his back pressed against the wood as his lips parted. His eyes, which hadn't remained still from the moment he'd arrived, were now firmly locked on the rise of her cleavage. He seemed surprised, confused, most certainly distracted.... She tightened her arms around herself, mortified beyond belief and bewildered by his lack of movement, unsure of what to do. Did she scream? Slap him? Why wasn't he rushing up the stairs or back through the door? Why was he not stammering, or apologizing, or _anything_ other than staring at her, slack-jawed?

“Z-Zacharias!” In his name was a plea, unspoken, for him to _please_ go away and leave her to die of humiliation, or at the very least to sink through the wall and becoming part of the framework. What could she do? Turn toward the wall? Turn away? Putting her back to him would block his way up the stairs, and the underwire of her bra was showing near the clasp anyway. _Idiot couldn't have caught an eyeful when I was wearing my better underclothes..._ Of course, it was all his fault no matter what, because any proper gentleman would have closed his eyes by now or went back into the bakery rather than just... _keep staring_!

He didn't leave, but his eyes moved slowly up her neck to meet her imploring gaze.

“Erm—ah—” He licked his lips and swallowed hard, fingers clenching into a fist. She noticed for the first time that he held a bag from Dr. Greyearl. “E-Eve...” Her breath caught in her throat at the rough edge to his voice. It was warmer and uneven compared to his usual tone. “W-what are you doing?” he asked hoarsely, the sound bringing a fresh wave of heat to her face.

“I—” Any real explanation, even the truth, seemed pointless. A hot wash of embarrassment ran over her face and she avoided his eyes, staring down at the sack of medicine and covering her red cheeks the best she could with one hand. Some of her hair, tied loosely in a low ponytail to keep it out of the food, came loose and fell over her shoulder as if taking pity on her. Of all the times she wished magic were real... at the very least, she wished that she could still ring a bell and make him forget everything with a wave of her hand and some well placed ink.

As she stared down at the steps, he bent his knees, placing the sack against the wall. There was a quick movement and she involuntarily looked up to see his bare chest. Her lungs refused to work, mouth drying at the sight. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen him shirtless before, but... it had been at a distance, when he trained with the other knights at the garrison. Never in such close proximity, close enough for her to see the thin, pale scars left from sword practice, to be able to reach out and touch him if she wanted to. She had a sudden image in her mind of running her fingers along his shoulder and down his chest, just to see if his skin was really as soft and warm as it appeared to be.

“Here,” he mumbled, banishing the fantasy as quickly as it had come. He was holding out his shirt to her with both hands, trying (and failing) to keep his eyes trained on her feet and not her upper body. He chewed his lip, and she noticed that he was breathing heavily, face slowly growing darker in the dim light of the staircase. She tentatively took it from him, holding it for a moment against her chest before quickly throwing it over her head. It was baggy on him and almost comical on her, the collar too wide and the sleeves too long, hanging down past her hips like a tunic. She pushed the sleeves above her elbows and adjusted the collar so that it only hung a little off one shoulder instead of sagging off both.

“T-thank you,” she managed to croak, still flushed and bewildered. He nodded quickly, picking up the bag from where he'd left it and shuffling around her as he began to climb the stairs. He stopped when he reached the stair she was on, turning his head and opening his mouth. She waited for him to speak, but he only stared down at her with a peculiar expression. She had seen it on him before, somewhere... but when? Then it came back to her; it was the same look he'd given her nearly a month ago, when he'd kissed her in their office 'in honor of' new year's, a mixture of longing and something else, something intense and passionate that made his eyes darker and caused her heart to lose rhythm for a beat or two.

“Zacharias?” Her voice was hushed. Above their heads, Mrs. Eclaire's snoring morphed into a loud hacking, followed by the unmistakable sound of a retch. His eyes left her, mouth falling into a concerned frown as he hurried up the stairs. A moment later, she heard him talking in a soft, comforting undertone as he moved about. She let herself fall back, head bumping against the wall of the stairs as a shaky breath left her. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes and swallowing thickly; if she were the type of woman to cry, she might have shed a few tears in her current state.

She slumped down to sit on the staircase, hand in her hair and one knee drawn up to her chest. Could that have gone any more _wrong_? From start to finish, the entire encounter had been too much to handle. She sighed, shoulders slumping. It was his fault—why had he not left immediately after seeing her undressed? No, it was Espella's fault for not letting her up the stairs in the first place, just because Mrs. Eclaire was sick. It wasn't as though they didn't have the woman quarantined to her bedroom... No, that wasn't right either. The fault was hers, for freezing up and not insisting that he go back outside to the bakery, for not pushing hard enough for Espella to let her up to the second story.

She pulled her other knee up as well and rested her forehead there, wrapping her arms around them. Even now, she could smell him in the shirt, his usual cologne enveloping her along with the scent of the lye soap that the laundress used and a faint hint of sweat. Despite everything, she had to admit that the mix of fragrances was strangely comforting.

“Eve?” She raised her head slowly, not yet wanting to leave her thoughts. She hadn't even started dissecting the meaning of that expression, which he had used on her twice now, or postulated on why she hadn't thrown all modesty to the wind and let him see the exposed underwire instead of her breasts. Espella stood in the light from the second floor, a shirt in her hands. “Is that... Sir Barnham's?” Eve nodded silently, and the blonde drew the cloth up to her mouth in mingled shock and horror. “Oh, Eve... I didn't think—oh...”

“I think I need to go home,” she managed to say in an even voice, standing up and turning away.

“If you're sure... did he say—he didn't—oh!” Espella seemed to have lost all coherent speech, she was so wrapped up in her imagined scenarios.

“I'm leaving,” Eve repeated, opening the bakery door. “Good luck with your dumplings.”

“Eve!” She turned as she felt Espella's hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright? You look—”

“I'm fine.”

“But—”

“I'm _fine_.” She just needed time to think, that was all. She couldn't do it here, with Espella around to worry and Barnham... being there, in the same building, in the same neighborhood. She needed to be at home, in her bed, thinking about what that look meant and why it affected her so, and deciding how she could ever face him again without dying of embarrassment, and how to somehow make him forget what she looked like undressed. “I just need to be alone for a while,” she said truthfully. Maybe in a few days or so she'd talk to Espella about it, tell her what happened, ask her opinion on it, wonder aloud with her about why men were so interested in breasts in the first place while eating tarts and cherry dumplings together by the hearth.

But at the moment, solitude was best.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Labyrinthia In February: A Rhyme
> 
> Mrs. Eclaire snores like a bear,   
> isn't it just a shame.  
> Eve got embarrassed   
> 'cause Barnham saw her chest  
> Espella got most of the blame.


End file.
